


The Chain

by gakarian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gakarian/pseuds/gakarian
Summary: Lavellan recollects on past love and loss.  Vague Trespasser DLC spoilers. Quick drabble, based on the song The Chain by Ingrid Michaelson.





	

_The sky looks pissed_

_The wind talks back_

 

It had been several months since Lavellan found Solas, only for him to disappear again.  It had been almost three years since he left in the first place.

Yet, for some inane reason, she could still feel his idle hand on hers, clear as day, as she read.

 

_My bones are shifting in my skin_

_And you, my love, are gone_

 

His hands were calloused from years of magic mastery, faint burn scars on his palms from when he was young and, funnily enough, playing with fire.  He never wore any jewelry, being a naturally poor apostate, but he had the markings left from a ring on his right hand’s ring finger. 

His hands were what she missed most about him.

 

_My room feels wrong_

_The bed won’t fit_

 

She closed the book she was reading—it was something about the magisters entering the Fade so long ago.  She was having a hard time focusing, so that was all she had soaked in from the reading.  Not that it mattered; she had read it many times before.  It was one of the first books Solas had recommended to her.

She brought her knees to her chest, hugging them as best as she could with the one arm, as she leaned against the headboard of her bed.

 

_I cannot seem to operate_

_And you, my love, are gone_

 

She stared off, vaguely in the direction of the stained glass window above the exit to the balcony.  It was of Dalish craftsmanship.

Solas claimed time and time again that the Dalish were wrong about countless things.

She hadn’t realized he was right until she learned the truth.

 

_So glide away on soapy heels_

_And promise not to promise anymore_

 

Some part of her wanted to hang onto the beliefs she had, for some semblance of familiarity, some remnants of hope and faith.

Another part wanted to smash the stained glass to itty bitty pieces.

And another part, the largest part of her, wanted all of this to go away, for things to return to the way they were before she knew, before she found out the truth of the man she loved.

 

_And if you come around again_

_Then I will take the chain from off the door_

 

She could still feel his hands on her own, pulling them from her knees, urging her to step off the bed and follow him, to the library.

“Vhenan,” she heard faintly, which brought a pained smile to her face.  “You’ve a somber look about you.  Perhaps I can distract you.”

 

_I’ll never say_

_That I’ll never love_

 

She remembered when she took his hands at the Winter Palace, on the balcony outside the grand hall, when he took her hands and poorly led her into a waltz.  He was a clumsy dancer, and clumsier in the getup that he and the rest of the Inquisition’s guests had been required to wear.  He was more elegant on the battlefield with a staff.  Regardless, he led her in dance confidently, placing a soft kiss on her hand once they’d finished.

She remembered the feeling of one hand on her shoulder, the other holding up a book as he read from it as they discussed their findings.   Gentle, but firm, he would squeeze her shoulder, rubbing the skin with his thumb affectionately whenever she asked interesting questions.

She remembered his hands upon her in the aftermath of battle.  “Allow me,” he would insist as she attempted to ice a particularly bad burn.  “Magic is only as controlled as the one who wields it; you are in pain, and therefore may falter.”  His hands were pleasantly cold as he knelt beside her, icy fingers trailing down her leg until the redness faded enough.

 

_But I don’t say a lot of things_

_And you, my love, are gone_

 

His hands were what she missed most about him. Scarred but softened hands, hands that seemed to fit perfectly clasped in hers.

Hands that would tenderly cup her cheeks, fingers that would gently trail down her jaw, hands that folded her hair behind her pointed ears.  Hands that firmly framed her hips as they kissed, hands that just barely brushed her back as they acknowledged each other in the hallways, hands that tightly gripped hers as he lifted her back up after a nasty battle.

Hands that felt hollow and weak in hers as he told her they no longer belonged together.

Hands that felt treacherous, almost painful, when he tried to take her hands, begging for her forgiveness despite everything he had done and would attempt to do once she was gone.

 

_So glide away on soapy heels_

_And promise not to promise anymore_

 

Hands that focused enough magic to save her life from the mark that was killing her.

But treasonous hands they were, hands that had taken the first gesture to stray away from the path of the world.

She felt a tear streak its way down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly, sniffling.

 

_And if you come around again,_

 

She knew that the second she saw those hands beckoning to her, she could not follow.  But, Mythal’enaste, she certainly wanted to.

Anything to feel those hands in hers again.

 

_Then I will take_

_Then I will take_

_Then I will take_

_the chain from off the door_


End file.
